


Racing Towards Inevitability

by ricca_riot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Antagonism, Backstory, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricca_riot/pseuds/ricca_riot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evolution of Angela Ziegler and Gabriel Reyes during their shared time at Overwatch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Morrison slides him the dossier on the possible new team members he’s researching when Gabe enters their shared office for what has become, over the years since they’ve taken over running Overwatch, their daily debriefing. Ziegler, Angela. MD, PhD, head surgeon at some Swiss hospital he’s never heard of. The photograph of the blonde woman radiates warmth from where it’s clipped to the front of her file and she looks like a doctor straight out of a television show. She’s too pretty, too young, to give him any sort of faith in her abilities. The thought strikes Gabriel out of nowhere, an instant moment of doubt that he can’t place. Maybe it’s superficial, but real people aren’t that complete - only in entertainment are people that warm and welcoming, that unmarred by war and its fallout.

“Do we need another medic?” He raises an eyebrow at Jack and gulps black coffee gone cold from a long-abandoned mug. This isn’t his area of expertise, beyond the general personnel requirements all doctors are more or less the same. They keep off the front lines, patch up the survivors, and stay in their lab.   

“Not quite.” Jack jerks his chin at the folder he’s surrendered and goes back to digging through papers for leads. After a moment, he adds, “Gerard met her her at some Belgian conference. He seemed… impressed with her credentials.” 

Another grunt and Gabriel resigns himself to skimming the file. LaCroix isn’t an idiot and he’s given them fair recommendations in the past. Flipping past the cover sheet, he skims the curriculum vitae, European hospitals and universities, articles from  _ Nature _ and  _ Discovery _ bearing her name over the last ten years: nanotech and cybernetics. Behind the articles are proposals, grants, some approved, more pending, others denied. A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth as he closes the file on an unpublished sketch titled “Caduceus” and tosses it back on the desk. “She’s legit?”

“If not, we could probably use a fraudster of her capability.” Jack grins. “If she can fool our intelligence agents this thoroughly, then she’s a cut above the common hack. I was thinking of flying out to Zurich tomorrow to meet with her myself before checking in with Central Administration.”

His eyes find the photograph again amidst the chaos of Jack’s desk and he nods, chasing an instinct triggered by the steady blue stare printed on glossy paper. “I'll go with you. I’ve got to be in Munich tomorrow night, anyway.”

Jack hesitates, his hand on his comm. “Is everything okay out there?”

“I intend to find out. ” Gabriel nods at the handset.  “I’ll handle the logistics, let's meet at the hangar at nineteen hundred.” Jack frowns, but nods assent and they move on. There are reports to review and field agents to supply, orders from headquarters that require a response, dozens of other matters more pressing to think on than the recruitment of one potential agent.  


~

They sleep in shifts on the flight from the watchpoint to Zurich airport and there’s a car waiting by the airstrip when they disembark. He’s fully capable of hating HQ while enjoying the perks. Gabriel drops his duffel in the backseat and swipes the keys from the valet. Morrison rolls his eyes, aborting his own attempt to get the keys and grumbles for the first ten minutes about his driving as they wind their way out of the airport and through traffic.  


Jack takes point when they reach the hospital, smoothing their way with his charm as they show their identification to security and head towards the wing where their target is working. Someone must have called ahead, because the blond from Jack’s file is waiting by the elevator, sharp and stalwart between them and the double doors leading into the long term care ward. She looks like less of a caricature in the flesh, there are shadows under her eyes that makeup can’t quite hide, the maternal warmth is nowhere to be found and she practically vibrates with the energy of someone who would rather be elsewhere. Instead, she gives the two of them and their official uniforms a long unimpressed look as the approach and lifts her chin as they approach a reasonable conversing distance.

“Doctor Ziegler?” Jack offers his hand with an easy smile.

The doctor purses her lips and gives the most perfunctory handshake before crossing her arms over her chest. “That is I. What are two armed Overwatch agents doing in a civilian hospital?” She’s not overtly hostile, but Gabe’s certain that could change at a moment’s notice.

“We’re looking for you, ma’am.” The midwestern accent thickens as Morrison smiles disarmingly. “Think we could have a minute of your time?”

For a minute, it looks like Ziegler’s going to throw them out on their asses and damn the consequences. Apparently she thinks better of it, and with a terse nod, leads them to a cramped conference room. There are no windows, and barely room for the three of them to sit comfortably. Gabriel takes the seat closest to the door, leaning back so he can keep the exit and the occupants in his line of vision. He hates places like this, single point of entry, single point of exit. It’s stifling and the weight of his submachine gun against his back does not fully dispel his agitation.

Doctor Ziegler smooths her skirt when she sits and looks Gabriel and John over. Her face shows Gabe nothing of what she thinks. “Speak your piece, Mister Morrison. Time is precious here, what is it that you want from me?” 

“A colleague of ours was in the audience when you gave a certain presentation on applied medical nanobiology in Brussels-”

“My research is not for sale.” Ziegler interrupts. She’s not particularly adept at steering conversations, if this is how she tries to shut them down.  Small tics around her mouth and eyes slip past her control and tell Gabriel more than she probably wants him to know: the doctor is angry and scared and valiant in her attempts to keep that information away from them.

“Who else has been here looking to buy?” Gabriel exchanges a quick looks with Jack, instantly alert. It’s telling that this is her instant reaction, defense and hostility. The anticipation and harsh response can only indicate that she’s been approached before. The flash of fear, though, is that dominates his attention. Has she been threatened, and if so, by whom?  After listening to Winston’s explanation of the research in layman’s terms, Gabe could imagine what sort of offers the doctor might have received to make her so brusque. The benefits to healing were hard to believe, and the ape seemed convinced that there were possibilities beyond that could be considered, for both good and evil purposes. 

The doctor graces him with a brief stare that cuts right through him and a short empty laugh. “It feels like nearly everyone has darkened my doorstep these last few weeks. I gave them all the same answer I will give Overwatch. When my work is complete it will be released globally for free. I won’t hoard it for profit nor will I allow anyone else to do so.”

“That’s one hell of a noble goal, Doctor. Overwatch wants to help you achieve that, any way we can. Development, distribution, we could even help stop it from falling into the hands of people who would try to weaponize it.” Jack leans in as though he thinks the conversation’s in the bag and if Doctor Ziegler wasn’t watching them as closely as they’re watching her, Gabe would have rolled his eyes at the unwarranted optimism. 

Falling in line with his predictions, Ziegler’s eyes flash with anger and her lips twist. Her mouth opens, closes and she takes a deep breath. More controlled, she returns, “As much as I appreciate your concern, what guarantees can you give me that Overwatch is not one of these nefarious organizations that would seek to alter my creation?”

“How about complete creative control as our new head of medical research?” Jack unveils the ace up his sleeve and his blithe confidence seems a little less unwarranted. That such a position exists is news to Gabriel, but if they’re expanding into medical technology, recruiting a pioneer like Ziegler is a solid strategy. Between her articles and personality, it’s not hard to imagine other medical researchers flocking to follow her.

“You’re not the first organization to come here offering me the moon, gentlemen. I know all about Overwatch and the collateral damages that follow you around. Let me ask you again, how do I know you’re on the side of the angels here?”

For a single moment of insanity, he thinks that Reinhardt Wilhelm should be here instead of either of them. The old geezer’s so convinced of what they do that sometimes his rhetoric even fools Gabriel for a minute or two. Instead Jack looks flabbergasted at being challenged and Gabe smirks. He might like Ziegler, just a little. “Well doc,” he drawls, at ease and insolent because he thinks it’ll irritate her into doing something rash, “Since you know all about us, then you know we were formed to win against the Omnics at any cost.”

“Everyone knows that.” Ziegler snaps and shifts in her chair. “You were very literal with your interpretation of any cost, Mister-”

“Reyes, and it’s commander.” Gabriel corrects her, grinning at the flash of discomfort as the doctor is caught off her guard. He doesn’t need to justify Overwatch’s actions to any civilian, the Omnic Crisis had been far, far worse than anything reported. That the main conflict has past and Overwatch is concerning itself with cleaning up the last entrenchments and the anarchies that have sprung up in its wake is enough. “If you think you know good from evil, doc, come show us the error in our ways.” Jack kicks him under the table but insolence and sardonicism have energized her, if the lift of her shoulders and set of her jaw is anything to judge by. Just because she’s not a combatant doesn’t mean she’s not a fighter. “Quit pulling tonsils and come do something big.”

“No one’s pulled tonsils in fifty years.” She shoots back and then her mouth twists in another dry smile as she catches herself and tucks her bangs behind her ear in an unexpectedly youthful gesture. “And I am not so easily baited, Commander. If something looks like a dog and barks like a dog, well, you know the saying. Your organization was born out of war and I have no guarantee that you’ll listen to my advice as an advocate for peace.”

The change in her tone prompts Jack back in with a rueful shrug. “I know words are cheap, but now that the crisis is waning, Overwatch has an opportunity to redefine ourselves and our role in the modern world. We’ve all bled for peace, now we need people who will help us preserve it.” The winning smile is a clear indication that he, at least, counts her in that category. 

Gabriel ranks the speech at seven out of ten, with points taken off for the cliches, but Ziegler seems to buy it. She stays quiet and Gabe stands, tossing a cheap communicator down between them. “Call us when you make up your mind.” Jerking his head at Jack, he pushes his chair back and pushes out of the claustrophobic space. The good doctor doesn’t try to stop them as they leave, but he does catch her pocketing the communicator out of the corner of his eye with a thoughtful expression. It’s good enough for the time being.


	2. The Valkyrie Swift-Response Suite

The anarchists in Munich aren’t a significant threat, just a bunch of disenfranchised little shits born too early for international peace and too late to do anything meaningful with their military training. Too bad for them. Reyes has bigger things in his sights, according to intel. The local authorities are perfectly happy to take Overwatch’s information on the gangs plaguing their neighborhoods and escort Gabriel to the airport. 

After Germany is the Great Rustbelt of North America and an assault against the last stronghold of Omnic resistance in the USA. Someone decides to give him the title of “official liaison” to the division charged with clearing out the Omnium in Detroit, and he hates them for it and all the bureaucratic headache it causes. The army is still the same as when he left it, the same stifling bureaucracy and tedium, prolonged vigilance and tension knotting his neck as they clear through the city, release in short bursts of violence against  machines that have taken up residence around the factory of their creation.

He’s ass-deep in the guts of an Omnic titan when Jack’s message comes through, welcoming Doctor Angela Ziegler, callsign Mercy, to Overwatch. Gabriel scowls at her codename,  _ real subtle there, Doc, thanks for the reminder, _ doesn’t bother to send a response, and gets back to disassembling the monstrosity with twin shotguns. There isn’t time to think about anything but what’s directly in front of him; his only contact with the rest of the world is through Morrison, rebuilding the watchpoint in Cairo, and Winston, holding down the fort in Gibraltar. 

Four weeks of fighting through broken streets on foot and sleeping in dilapidated houses in shitty fall weather feels like four years by the time he’s blasted a path to the triple-thick doors of the enormous Omnium. It’s noisy with activity and Gabriel thinks he’ll chew through his tongue listening to the whirring and clanking of impending doom while waiting for reinforcements. It takes a factory of this size about 4 hours to churn out a Siege Automaton E54 unit and an assembly line can run that four hour process with over a hundred concurrencies. The Omnics are building another army while his squads sit around with their thumbs up their asses waiting for some desk jockey a hundred miles away to decide the time is right to attack. 

Two days later, Torbjorn arrives with a demolitions crew and Gabriel stands with the Swede as they watch the place go up in flames. It’s a satisfying conclusion to the last weeks of hell and Gabriel’s damn sure that means his work is done here. That delusion lasts until some slimeball from Homeland Security tries to shake his hand and asks him to stay to help with resettlements. Breaking the little shit’s wrist would count as an international incident, and probably involve having to talk his way out of a military tribunal, so he limits his ranting to Morrison when the traitor agrees to extend his assignment.

“Yeah, it’s shitty,” Jack agrees when Gabriel’s run out of curses to describe his feelings on the matter.   “But the public’s waiting to see how Overwatch will operate in peacetime and HQ thinks that helping civilians get back on their feet is a good start.” That reasoning doesn’t seem to extend to Torbjorn who is recalled with all due haste in that same damned call. “Try to wrap it up quickly,  before the next catastrophe hits.” His sigh is audible through the transmission’s static. 

Reyes snorts at that and cuts the call short. He doesn’t give a shit what the top brass think and Morrison’s willingness to play nice with them is an endless source of annoyance. Small, asymmetrical teams operated just fine during the crisis, to bog them down with all the shit that had kept other forces from being effective seems crazy.  He’s not happy, but he joins the other military contractors brought in to fill the gaping holes in local law enforcement. Providing security to civilians is boring. This group’s survived by keeping their head down, steering clear of big troubles, and the worse crimes committed in the temporary shanty-towns are small and should be easily dealt with. Instead, his hands are tied with red tape at every turn, an cycle of helpless frustration and increasingly hostile arguments with oversight and administration. Every tactic he knows for keeping order is strictly forbidden. The camp’s descent into chaos and lawlessness is inevitable and there’s jack shit he can do about any of it. 

After two weeks of the dickhead bureaucrats and their scumball policies, Gabriel makes an executive decision that he’s wasting his time on this assignment, public relations be damned, and issues his own recall. There are bigger, more important things for him to be doing than trying to play mediator for drunken brawls or slow the swell of illegal activity. Let other people do their damned jobs for once. He sends a short notification to Central detailing his actions and in response receives a promise to serve him his own ass disguised in diplomatic doublespeak. 

~

A message waits for him when Gabriel wakes up from several luxurious hours of unconsciousness in a fair approximation of his own bed; his meeting with the brass is postponed until the following day. It’s not really a day off, but it eases the relentless rush of activity. It’s pleasant to take his time in the internal exercise facility and shower before heading to his office to start in on the work he neglected while out in the field. 

Jack’s scowling at a report when Gabe strolls into their office. He detours to the coffee maker to top off two mugs and thumps one between Morrison’s hands fidgeting on the keyboard. The intrusion breaks whatever staring contest Jack’s having with the display and he jerks his head up in surprise. “I thought you had some big meeting with Central today.”

“Yeah, hi, Morrison, it’s good to see you too.” Gabe sinks back into his chair. The coffee is black and strong and exactly what he needs to handle the other leader's pissy attitude. “The assholes canceled on me. I’ll survive.” 

“Sorry,” Jack scrubs at his eyes and gulps the coffee in front of him. He tries again. “I’m glad you’re back. How’d it all go?”

“The last weeks were a waste.” There’s no point in mincing words. “Torbjorn was what we needed for the Omnium, but a recruit who looks good in uniform would have done just as well as I did for the rest. Maybe better, depending on their competencies in ass-kissing and diplomacy.”

“You do come in dead last in ass-kissing.” Jack’s tone is drier than the dust bowl. “I assume that’s the argument you’ll be presenting for why you hightailed it out of there?” 

“Someone needs to tell the bastards they can’t always get what they want. Don’t tell me there weren’t a hundred other assignments I could have been more useful on than listening to Sam Civilian complain about sleeping in a bunk by the latrines.”

“Things were that quiet?” Morrison leans forward, bright and eager for good news. Michigan’s not Indiana, but it’s close enough that Gabriel thinks he understands. America’s where his roots are, the same as Jack.

“The USA is fully back under human control. Detroit’s being resettled as we speak.” Gabriel drains his mug. “How’s the rest of the world holding up since I left?”

“Still intact. Gerard says they’re making good progress in Chile and Ana’s taken over the Cairo watchpoint for the next month or two. I think her daughter’s stationed there for the winter.”

“You fucking softie.” Gabriel snickers as Jack flips him off. “So what’s the bad news, then? You look like someone pissed in your Wheaties.”

“Eastern Europe’s still in a bad way and no one, not us nor the UN, much less the locals, have the resources to respond as needed. Vietnam and Turkey have submitted similar appeals for aid, and Numbani’s utopia is reportedly on the brink of catastrophe, but I can’t spare anyone to investigate what’s happening on the ground.” Morrison pinches the brink of his nose and rubs the shadows under his eyes. Broad shoulders sag as he props his elbows on the desk; Reyes notes that his absence wasn’t easy on his partner, either.  “We’re stretched thin holding what we’ve got, but it looks bad, especially with the US making noise about their recent victories, you know?”

“Sounds like a problem for Central Administration to solve. If we need more bodies, they should get us more bodies. That’s why we keep them around.” He’s here now, at least, better able to cut through the tangle of stress to the most practical solution. For all Morrison gets on Gabriel’s ass about delegation and working as part of a team, he should be better about following his own advice.

Jack snorts, but it doesn’t erase the worried lines around his eyes. “You know it’s not that simple. People like us, the sort with the talents that Overwatch needs, don’t just spring up out of nowhere. It’s not like we can take John Doe in off the street, slap blue armor on him, and get the results we need.”

“Well what we’re doing now isn’t getting results, either.” Gabe scowls at the thin film on the bottom of his empty mug. “Speaking of recruits, how’s the new doc? Zeegler?”

“Ziegler?” Jack corrects his pronunciation with a flash of amusement that is met with a well-deserved eyeroll.  “Angela’s settling in well, I think. She’s very productive; more or less lives in the lab we set up for her.” He digs through a sheaf of printouts, pulls one out and skims it. “She made some major updates to the medical kits we give to field operatives that have been well received in the two weeks we’ve been using them and she’s taken over the post-mission medical evals.”

Gabe shrugs at that. He’s indifferent to the idea of mandatory check ups as part of debriefings. Overwatch agents are grown men or women; they should know when they need medical attention and when they can just sleep it off. 

There’s more on the topic of Doctor Ziegler that Jack still wants to discuss. The man across from him drums his fingers on the desk and picks his next words with tact. “The doctor has some very interesting inventions she’s been prototyping with Torbjorn’s help.  She’s requested permission to bring them out for a field test. I wanted you around so we could take a good look at them before signing off on anything.” 

“A field test.” His hearing’s playing tricks on him, but Jack nods in confirmation. “What the hell is she doing that requires a field test?”

“It’s better if you see for yourself.” Jack pushes his chair back and stands, leaning over to snag Gabriel’s mug out of his hands for a refill. “Let’s go now, unless you have something more important to be doing. If I look at next year’s operating budget any longer I’m going to throw the damn console out the window.”

There’s several months of backlogged reports that he should review, but Morrison doesn’t leave him a whole lot of room to maneuver without looking like he’s suddenly developed an irresistible hard on for paperwork. Gabe takes his coffee back and follows Jack to the science wing of the facility.  

The door to Lab Six is open and he can hear faint off-key humming threaded around the scrape of metal on plastic. The spacious lab is immaculate, walls lined with differently sized steel cabinets sporting white labeled in a square print. The counter gleams under the bright lighting and small hand tools form neat ranks where it butts up against the wall.  Doctor Ziegler is tucked in at the end of a workbench, perched on a stool as she works, and doesn’t look up as they enter. 

“One moment, please.” The humming stops and there’s only the scrabble of quiet activity as she finishes her task and turns to them. The caution from their first meeting is still evident as she turns to survey them and straightens the collar of the white coat hanging off her shoulders. “Good morning, gentlemen. Is there something I can do for you?”

Jack jams his hands in his pockets and puts on an easy smile as he strolls further into her space. “‘Morning, Mercy.” The corner of her mouth tugs up at the use of her callsign. “Figured now would be a good time to discuss the possibility of green-lighting the field tests you requested.”

“Commander Reyes,” Ziegler nods politely to him. Her tone is even and professional, too reminiscent of the Swiss bureaucrats lining up to give him shit for Gabriel to be comfortable with the formality. “If you give me a moment, I will retrieve my armor for your inspection. The staff on the table is second generation, not yet complete, but its predecessor is fully functional.”

Gabriel feels his eyebrows crawling up towards his hairline as the doctor turns her back on him, heels clicking against the tile as she slips through a side door. “Armor?” He hisses at Jack, who shrugs and crosses to examine the staff on the table. 

“At least listen to what she has to say.” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes at the urging. Everything he understood of Ziegler’s recruitment centered around her staying far away from any environment where she might require armor. Overwatch or not, she’s still firmly on the civilian side of the spectrum and has no business interfering with his fighters. He stays quiet as the clicking heels return, Doctor Ziegler bedecked in the most ornamental white and black armor he’s ever seen. The kevlar and white plating look solid, Torbjorn’s craftsmanship instantly recognizable, but what the hell are the large white struts sprouting over her shoulders for, or the decorative gold band above her head? “Real poetic, doc. An honest to God guardian angel watching over us.” 

Jack’s elbow jars against his ribs and Ziegler doesn’t deign to respond to his commentary. “The Valkyrie Swift-Response Suit and Caduceus prototypes.” Ziegler turns the long rod in her hands. “These two inventions will revolutionize medical response to traumatic incidents in places where traditional hospitals and medical care are not a viable option. The suit provides armor and mobility to a first responder. Torbjorn has assured me that it will hold up to small and medium arms fire. The guardian apparatus allows easy transport across significant distances, ensuring medical personnel can adapt to a strike team’s changing needs and remove the physical limitations that have historically plagued field triage. As a bonus, it can be used as an escape route from hostile combatants and is quieter and more easily controlled than standard jetpacks. I am able to perform a small demonstration, if you would like, though the suit can maneuver over an area much greater than the lab provides.”

She looks to Jack who nods and the propulsion system whispers to life at the press of a button cleverly concealed in the wrist panel. Golden rays shine forth between the struts and with a delicate hop the doctor is airborne, hovering with the toes of her boots around waist height before she glides higher for a dive that ends in a graceful landing. 

“Have you ever been on an actual battlefield?” Gabriel crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, frowning. Everything about this rubs him the wrong way and Ziegler hasn’t even started in on what the stick in her hands is supposed to do. The doctor’s lips thin at the criticism, but she stays quiet as he adds, “All those shiny lights make you a target. Might as well put a bullseye on your forehead.”

“According to the reports Winston showed me, your field medics take anywhere from two to fifteen minutes to react to critical injuries and fatality rates reflect their tardiness.” Ziegler meets his unimpressed stare with flashing eyes. “Your agents die because of the people responsible for their recovery cannot arrive on time.” Her tone is quiet and steady, not quite covering the undercurrent of her anger. 

“Our agents,” Jack corrects her and Ziegler bows her head in humility. “Let’s be rational about this, guys.”

“I believe the  agility will balance out the loss of protection provided by standard battlegear with no net threat to the wearer’s wellbeing.” Ziegler persists, burying her anger under professionalism. “It also enhances the use of the Caduceus staff, which is optimized for short to mid-range healing.” She pauses, as though expecting commentary, then soldiers on. “Caduceus leverages the unusual fluid dynamics of  plasma infused with high-density nanobots to create a semi-solid beam that will provide rapid healing to whomever it touches. This is the same technology that the medical kits have been updated with, but because of the way the plasma chains function, it can be applied from several meters away.”

“Does it work?” Gabriel demands. Fancy-ass doctor or not, that’s not a claim he’s willing to take on faith. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof, and for medics to be able to deliver any sort of aid from range would be a huge asset.  

“I am able to demonstrate its basic capabilities.” Ziegler fans those crazy wings and is airborne again, staff held steady in her hands as she levels it at Gabriel’s chest. For an instant this seems like a terrible idea, survival instinct screams at him to dodge, to get out of the trajectory of whatever’s coming. Pride roots his feet in place. It’s not a weapon, the doctor has all the killing intent of a bunny rabbit, she’s not a killer and he has nothing to fear from her, however unearthly she might look. 

A beam of gold light fans out from the of the staff, touching down his shoulder. Warmth spreads from the contact, seeking out all the small nicks and bruises he accrues during his daily existence and smoothing them over. “Huh.” Gabe says, because what the hell else is he going to say to tech like this? Then he adds, “You can stop now.”

Ziegler smirks as she cuts the beam and descends back to the ground and Jack scratches his chin thoughtfully. “And it’s a literal cure-all?”

“All my tests indicate that as long as the patient is still alive the nanos will undo whatever damage has incapacitated them. There are niche cases I have not been able to examine due to ethical constraints, but there is no known cure for the majority of those situations.” Doctor Ziegler taps the staff against her shoulder and stands before them, awaiting judgment.

“Someone’s going to get shot in the face wearing that and what’s the halo going to do for them, then?” The question is harsh, a reflection of his discomfort and the nagging sensation that somewhere along the way, Gabe lost control of the situation. It was probably around the time when the doctor decided she was going to turn their medical team into literal angels. 

Ziegler bristles at the accusation in his tone. “The headpiece emits an energy field that slows and deflects small projectiles and enhances visibility. It is designed to be connected to any standard communications module, and it is most emphatically not a halo.”

Jack can’t quite suppress his amusement and the doctor glares at Gabriel like this is all his fault. Well, she designed the damn thing, not him. Behind the grin, Jack’s expression is bright and calculating, that damn fool hope resurfacing once more. No doubt he’s envisioning an entire flock, or whatever, of operatives wearing this thing. It would be a damned field day for the PR team. “What do you think?” 

“That you should ask the ones who’d be testing it what they think.” Gabriel retorts. “If Torbjorn says it meets the requirements of our ballistics tests, I’ll believe him, but it’s up to the medics who wants to be the first angel on the team.”

If he had thought his reluctant acceptance would placate Ziegler, he’d have been wrong. The doctor steps back, staff leveled between them as though she thinks he might try and seize her inventions by force. “The armor is calibrated and sized for me. I will conduct the initial testing.”

“Like hell you will.” His temper spikes and Gabriel fights it back down. He’s the reasonable one here. He’s the commander. “You’re a civilian, you don’t know the first thing about operating in a live-fire environment. Trust me, you don’t want to be out there.”

“I am not suggesting you put me in the front lines of a war that has ended, Commander.” Ziegler tosses the title back in his face and yields nothing. “Contrary to what you think, I am not in the habit of risking my life needlessly. I understand the risks and find them acceptable. My invention is safe, I am accustomed to using it, but I cannot get reliable data second-hand. Once it is production ready, I will absolutely make versions modified for the rest of our team.” She takes a deep breath and meets his eyes. Her blue stare is bright and guileless, the haughty demeanor peels away as Angela pleads her case. “I can do so much more out there than I can in here. Won’t you at least consider it?” When neither he nor Morrison respond to that, she leaves them, taking the armor and staff into the small side-room to change back into lab coat and skirt.

“We could send her somewhere quiet, with Reinhardt and a team for a supply drop.” Jack offers in the silence that reigns. “He’ll watch out for her.”

Gabriel curls his lip at that. Jack isn’t wrong. If they agree to allow Ziegler onto the field, then behind Reinhardt Wilhelm and his massive power armor is the best place for her. Still, instinct he can’t explain rebels against acceptance. “Treating her like frontlines personnel is going to bite us in the ass. She’s a good doctor, sure, but we’re her COs. It’s our job to draw the line for her own good and for the good of the team.”

“Someone took a chance on us once, remember? She deserves one, too.” Shaking his head, Jack leans over and rolls the half-assembled staff across the counter, staring off into the distance. Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not the bright white tile covering the walls. “We can’t turn away help, especially the sort that could bring more of our guys home safe.”

“She’s not going to help anyone if she’s dead.” Gabriel refuses to relent. One of them has to be realistic about the most likely outcome for this. Shaking his head, he leaves Jack in the lab and heads back up to their office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apparently don't know how to write vignettes and this is just going to be a good old backstory of Gabriel Reyes, Angela Ziegler, and Jack Morrison having adventures until everything goes to a shit. Drop me a line at [tumblr](http://www.ricca-raccon.tumblr.com) or leave a comment. We're all on this train to hell together.

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins. I'm a huge sucker for this game and these characters, so I couldn't resist contributing. Leave a review or come holler at me on [tumblr ](http://ricca-raccoon.tumblr.com/).


End file.
